


Hands Held Higher

by GlassAlice



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cuban Lance (Voltron), Friendship, Gen, Hawaiian Hunk (Voltron), Hunk (Voltron) is a Good Friend, Hunk (Voltron) is so Pure, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Insecure Lance (Voltron), Race Issues, how to be an ally, standing up for each other, what is in a name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 23:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15059981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassAlice/pseuds/GlassAlice
Summary: For most of his life Lance has dealt with a confusing and hard to pronounce name. It all started in Elementary school with a mix up and now he can't seem to shake the name McClain no matter how hard he tries.





	Hands Held Higher

“McClain?”

Heads turned this way and that as the whole class looked for the person in question. Children shifted in their seats as they hoped the teacher wasn’t speaking to them. 

“Lance McClain?”

The teacher stared straight at him and all heads turned to follow. There were only fifteen students but it felt like a million eyes weighing him down. Lance sunk down in his seat, wishing he could bury himself in a hole. Why was everyone looking at him?

“ _Lance McClain_ , you will answer when I speak to you.” The teacher’s voice rose with frustration. A few of the students let out a chorus of oh’s that only made Lance sink deeper. He knew he was in trouble, but _why_ was beyond him. 

Lance looked down at his hands clutched tight in his lap. His mind was racing, what had he done to get into trouble? Oh, his mom was going to kill him.

A hand slapped against his desk and he jumped, eyes wide. “You will look at me and speak when spoken to, Mr. McClain.”

Lance swallowed, tears burning but refusing to fall. It was the first day of school and he wasn’t going to cry. He looked up at his teacher with determination, “That’s not my name.”

The teacher glared, and Lance swallowed again but spoke louder, “It’s not my name, ma’am.”

With a click of her tongue, she walked back to the front of the class and pulled the ledger from her desk. Eyes quickly scanning the page, she spoke loudly for the whole class to hear, “It says here, your name is Lance McClain.”

Lance shook his head, short strands flying out with the force, “Lance is my nickname, but my name is Leandro Alejandro Núñez Cuesta Espinosa.”

A long sigh was his only response. 

Lance sat back in his chair, making himself as small as he could behind his desk.

“I won’t tolerate liars in my class, McClain. Go to the office.”

He sat bolt upright, anger shooting through every nerve. “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t make me tell you twice. To the office. _Now._ ” She pointed to the door. His teacher’s face reminded of his abuelita when she was angry, it was all he could do not to let the tears spill out right then and there.

Every head was trained on him; all eyes judging and monstrous as he packed his things. He’d done nothing wrong, why was he being punished? Why was everyone so mad? Anger and fear ran hot and cold through his veins. Lance couldn’t hold back anymore, it was all too much. Fat tears fell from his eyes. They were silent as they rolled down his cheeks and wet his shirt. Lance grabbed his backpack in a huff and stomped out of the classroom. 

He’d cried in front of everyone. The whole class watched as he was scolded. _No one did anything to stick up for him._ Some friends.

Humiliation burned his face and he balled his small fists. Lance made his way slowly to the principal's office, kicking at the floor every other step.

He waited in the office until after school when his mom got off work to pick him up. It took another hour for them to sort out exactly what happened. His mom signed him up under Lance A. Núñez since his name was too long to fit in the little boxes provided by the registration form. Someone mixed his file up with another student named Lane McClain. He peeked over the edge of the desk, standing on his tiptoes, the blue light of the computer showed two student profiles, Lane McClain and Lance McClain. 

It was wrong. Lance was punished for someone else’s mistake, for someone forcing the wrong name on him. The lady at the office apologized, saying something about a misclick on Excel as the cause. That the names were right next to each other and you know how technology is. Lance didn’t understand. 

She said it would be fixed right away. 

It wasn’t.

His name became a fight every year, and every year they told his mom it was fixed for sure this time. Everytime he was still McClain. The name followed him from elementary into high school.

\-- _Does it bother anyone else that someone else has your name?_ \--

“Looks like there’s no mistake, you’re registered as Lance McClain.” The man behind the desk tapped way at his computer, “Your transcript from high school says “Lance McClain.”

Lance pushed his I.D. through the little hole in the glass that separated him from the bursar, “Look at my I.D., it says Espinosa, not McClain.”

“Hmm, there must have been a mix up, we’ll need to have your real transcript sent from Jefferson High.” He said dismissively, waving Lance away.

Running a hand through his hair he let out an exasperated sigh, “I told you this _is_ my transcript. My Elementary school got my name mixed up and somehow it’s never been fixed.”

The man looked over his glasses and pushed the I.D. back through the slot, “I’ll need your real transcript,” he leaned over, whispering harshly, “next time get a better fake. You’re lucky I don’t report you immigration.”

He felt like he’d been slapped. Lance’s stomach fell like a stone and goosebumps prickled across his skin. “What?”

The bursar glared and pushed a button on the counter causing the numbers to change above Lance’s head. He called out, “Next please,” in a dull voice.

Lance’s eyes flicked down to the button and back up to the man, “Wait no, what?” He looked behind him at the line of students waiting for their turn, eyes watching him.

The bursar muttered a deadpan apology but Lance spoke over him, “You’re not listening to me!” White hot anger built up in his chest and his cheeks burned red with shame.

“I’m sorry sir, but there’s nothing I can do without a _real_ transcript.”

Lance clenched his fists into tight balls, fingernails digging into his palms. “Can I at least have my transcript back?”

“I’m sorry sir, I can’t do that. If you don’t leave I’ll have to call campus security.” The man picked up the phone on his desk and wiggled it.

Lance wanted to yell, to scream profanities, to point at him and show everyone what a horrible person this guy was. The words were heavy in his throat, choking him. Lance turned to leave only to meet with an endless sea of eyes. The same eyes his classmates from elementary school had. Eyes that judged him for making a scene, judged him for being himself. Eyes that accused him of interrupting their day. Passionless, uncairing eyes. 

This wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay. All he wanted was his own identity, why was that too much to ask for?

It was shame that moved his feet and humiliation that propelled him through the double doors. The sun was bright, glaring down and reflecting harshly off the concrete. Lance walked off campus, head bowed and red crescents carved in his palms.

\-- _We stay in place because we don’t want to lose our lives._ \--

The mirror fogged in the steam of the shower until Lance couldn’t see anything but a distorted figure of himself. He leaned over the counter, running his forearm across the surface of the glass. A small space formed where he could see himself clearly. It fogged over almost instantly. Lance leaned over and repeated the action, this time squinting at the person staring back. He watched as the fog formed over his reflection until he was nothing but a dark shadow. Trapped.

Lance contorted his face, trying to find himself in the useless mirror.

He understood his mirror image, how it felt, locked behind a thick mist, unable to be seen. Outside forces coloring it a different shape, unable to escape. Unable to _be_.

Running the earlier conversation through his head, he replayed the scene over and over again. Comebacks and rants and full on monologues were created and destroyed. Lance argued and fought, he spoke up for his past self who couldn’t speak up. Who couldn’t stand up for himself.

Lance stood up straighter, speaking to his reflection, “My name is Leandro Alejandro Núñez Cuesta Espinosa.” He touched the glass again, dragging his fingers over the surface so that his image was cut by streaks of film. 

“My name is Leandro Alejandro Núñez Cuesta Espinosa, Lance for short.” He put on a winning smile, and threw finger guns at himself

Fluttering his eyes, he clasped his hands and cocked his hip. “Wow, you’re name is so cool! I wish I had a cool name like that!” He paused, smiled dropping from his face. 

This was stupid, what was he doing? Like that would ever happen. 

He let his hands fall to his sides, shoulders hunching over. Leaning against the counter with his head bowed, he lifted it part way to glare up at the mirror. “Shut up. You don’t want my name. When you have a name like mine, no one remembers it. No one cares.”

The steam fogged over the mirror again leaving him alone in the room. Well, he was always alone. Alone in more ways than one. Sure, he had his family and his closest friends, but that’s not what he meant. No one ever stood up for him, no one ever listened to him enough to care. 

_Lance is easier to say, mind if I call you Lance?_

_Lance McClain, that’s so funny, I’m going to call you that now._

_You’re lucky I don’t report you immigration._

\-- _I don’t want to be heard I want to be listened to._ \--

“What’s your name?”

Lance looked up from his desk to see a pair of brown eyes staring back at him. He was tired. He was tired of fighting, tired of explaining, tired of trying to be heard. “Lance. Why?”

A dark eyebrow was lifted but the boy next to him shrugged a shoulder. “I forgot my textbook. Can I share yours?”

“I guess.” Lance pushed the textbook to the edge of his desk so that they could both look at it. The boy scooted closer so he could see. 

“What’s your name?” Lance decided if he had to spend a whole hour sharing a textbook, he wasn’t going to do it anonymously.

“You can call me Hunk.” He looked over to Lance, head resting against his fist.

“Hunk? Kinda weird name.” Lance whispered as the teacher walked through the door.

“No one can really pronounce my name, so...” Hunk groaned, “You try pronouncing Aneterea Tonumaipe'a Galuvao.”

“Wow,” Lance winced. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Though I guess mine isn’t much better.”

“Why? Lance seems pretty easy. You have a super long last name or something?” Hunk pushed their desks even closer so they could whisper.

“My full name is Leandro Alejandro Núñez Cuesta Espinosa. It’s a mouthful, I know so I just go by Lance.”

“That’s the best name I’ve ever heard. Seems like we’re the perfect pair, aren’t we?” The sandy haired boy muffled his laugh and Lance grinned.

“McClain, Garrett, no chatting during class.”

"Garrett? How'd they get that out of Galuvao, I swear..." Lance rolled his eyes but Hunk stood up. His face set in a hard line, he bit out, “Please don’t call me Garret. I go by Hunk or you can try to actually pronounce my name.”

Lance stared up in awe then whipped his head around to see the Professor's reaction.

"I don't like your tone."

"I don't think it's a hard request to have you call me by my name." Hunk was a big guy, but at that moment, Lance thought he looked as large as one of those angels on the church stained glass windows.

Biting his lip, Lance raised his hand and stood next to Hunk. "My name isn't McClain, that's a school error. Please call me Lance."

Hunk's smile was as bright as the sun and for the first time in a long time, Lance felt like he could be seen. That he had someone on his side. Someone who understood and respected. Lance grinned back.

"Fine. Lance, Hunk, no more talking in my class."

Lance sat down feeling light headed and euphoric. He felt like he could run a marathon, climb Mt. Everest, swim the English channel and still have energy left over. He'd stood up for himself, and was heard. Something changed, maybe because he wasn't alone now in his struggles.

Lance looked over at Hunk. Yeah, the world seemed a bit brighter, a bit happier, just that much easier.

Who knew it only took one person to stand up next to him?

One person to change everything.

\-- _Hands held higher, We'll be on fire_ \--

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a true story that happened to my friend in school. 
> 
> If we don't stand up for representation, who will?
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr [@Yuzuling](http://yuzuling.tumblr.com) or on discord @Yuzuling7567


End file.
